


Valentine/Sole Survivor

by an_actual_trash_panda



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: F/M, Fluff, It's all useless fluff, Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:53:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25010428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_actual_trash_panda/pseuds/an_actual_trash_panda
Summary: Found this old, old, OLD thing I wrote back in 2016 on my Tumblr.  Debating on deleting it there, so I'm putting it here while I decide.
Relationships: Female Sole Survivor/Nick Valentine
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	Valentine/Sole Survivor

“C’mon Jones, don’t joke around about that sort of stuff,” Nick’s face is obscured behind a thick case file, but Cecilia can tell it’s all scrunched up. It always does when he’s got his shoulders bunched like that. He’s probably not even reading, she figures, just puffing smoke into the ink-smudged paper as he dismisses her confession.

“I’m not kiddin’, Valentine.”

And she’s watching him, waiting, those perfect icy blues boring holes through the papers in his hands— he can _feel_ her stare. It’s nothing _that_ new, those eyes have always given him shivers, but this is a little different now. Nick knows that quirked brow, the way her frown turns into a thin, _thin_ line as she analyzes the perp— _him,_ for once. 

“ _Nick_. I’m _serious._ ” Cecilia’s palms press flat against the desk, her voice slightly indignant, and Nick can make out the top of her head; not that she’s trying to just bust into his space.  
He knows that.   
Still, he fights the urge to sink into his chair. 

“Quit it, Jones” he tries to keep his voice flat, and his metal hand flits through papers like he’s actually working, but there’s a snappish edge to his voice, “I ain’t in the mood for your wisecracks.”

Her hands zip away from the desk’s cracked, ragged surface, and Nick realizes that he’s made a mistake. But he doesn’t look up. Not immediately.  
In that awkward, tar-like silence, the detective blinks owlishly, letting his snafu sizzle into that mechanical brain of his.

A sharp dame like that tells him she loves him, and Nick treats it like a crummy prank.  
Not just _any_ sharp dame, either. In any other situation, he’d be glued to her arm in a heartbeat. But he’s… Well, just look at him. He looks like he dragged himself through a Mirelurk nesting hole; hell, he probably _has_ at some point. The lady needs someone more than _that_ to keep her company. A lot more than _Nick_ , anyway. 

Still… the _wounded_ note in her voice isn’t what he intended. “Fine.” Cecilia turns on her heel, and the way her voice breaks would’ve made his heart stop. “If you really think that, I’d—better just split.”

….  
“Wait a sec,” it bubbles out from his chest, and the crinkled cigarette still hanging from his mouth wiggles as he scowls at himself. He flattens his file so he can watch her. Part of him hopes she continues to walk out the door, but she’s frozen to the spot, back turned to him, so still he almost can’t tell if she’s breathing.

“That—that’s not what I meant,” another cloud of smoke billows nervously from the gaping hole in his neck, gears whirring. Nick deflates when he sees the hurt written out on her face, and he quickly looks back down as he stands, “It’s just. I can’t–…You don’t wanna be stuck with an old clunker like _me_.” Nick bats away some rogue papers to put out his cigarette in an overused ashtray, only to fish out another from his pocket. “You deserve more.”

While he’s fixated on his gasper, Cecilia has made her way to his side of the desk. Her metal-toed boots, almost hidden under the hem of her slacks, _thunk_ against the floor with a new conviction. Her brow is once again furrowed, hands on her hips, as if she’s prepped to chew him out. 

“Nick Valentine,” the authority in her voice makes him jolt in surprise, newly-lit cigarette tilting upwards with his frown, “I ain’t a shuckster— “

“Aw, Cealy, I didn’t— “

“— _And_ I ain’t a fool, neither,” she’s leaned up against the desk now. Though her voice is confident, the hand adjusting Nick’s tie is gentle. There’s an unfamiliar sparkle of caution in her eyes, fingers moving up to the knot and resting there, “I love you, Nick. If I didn’t mean it, I wouldn’t be sayin’ it.”

Cecilia tilts her chin upwards and leans in a just _little_ more, and the cigarette drops from Nick’s lips as he starts gabbing anxiously. And she lets him continue like that, for a minute or two, watching evenly as the sleuth barks out nervous chuckles and half-finished fears. What if he really isn’t enough for her? What if she realizes she’d made a mistake? What if something happens to him, or God forbid, _her?_ What if these aren’t even _his_ feelings? What if they’re _Nick’s_ , the _real_ Nick, what if—

Suddenly, Cecilia’s hands cup his cheeks (careful of avoiding the large rip, he’s always been sensitive about it), and he shuts up. Just like that.  
She takes a slow breath, and somehow, Nick’s the one that feels a lot calmer. “I love you. Do you— “ she clears her throat, a quiet noise, and her blue gaze darts over his face searchingly, “—do you feel the same way?”

For a hot second, the question hangs there. He can see it etched on her face, she’s just as nervous as he is, her breath held as she waits. Waits for _him_ , Nick realizes distantly, and snaps himself out of it. He smiles, and cups her elbows in his hands comfortingly.

“Yeah. You got me there, doll.”

“Good,” Cecilia lets go of her breath, relieved, and lets her arms slide around his neck, “That’s all that matters.”


End file.
